


Soother

by Menirva



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme Prompt-After Talia’s death, Bane and Barsad go into hiding. Barsad is deeply concerned for his lonely, despondent leader. One night, as they share a bed, Barsad takes a chance and begins kissing Bane’s bare back. Barsad gently tops Bane, reassuring his leader that he will not leave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soother

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something completely different...

It is strange to see him like this. He is a mountain crumbled, and it pains him to see it. No poetics can be waxed that would be able to detail just how much it hurts Barsad inside to see his leader broken. His wounds have been cleaned; they are deep, but he must not even feel them as he is lying on his belly on the pallet, his mask pressed into the grungy pillow beneath. There is the soft hiss, the unsteady rise and fall of his back. He is not sleeping. He is grieving. Barsad grieves with him. His face is still raw from his own tears, and when he lowers himself carefully beside Bane, he feels the painful twinge in his gut from the fragments of bullet that had been dug from it.

They are in relative safety, now. Their comrades swooped in on them in the chaos, gathered them and took them to safety. Now they wait for Gotham to settle, to be lulled into a sense of security before they escape it and decide what will be its future.

Bane’s breathing changes when he sits. He knows he is there beside him, and Barsad knows he does not wish it, that he wishes his supposed weakness to be viewed by no one, but he has always known what his leader has needed even when it is unspoken. He also knows that there is no weakness here, only the grief of a man who loved so strongly that he was willing to burn for it.

They have been intimate before. Barsad has offered his body many times in the past to satisfy his brother’s needs. They have rutted quickly, roughly, against tables and walls, and he thrilled at it, the fullness of his brother stretching him open and claiming him as his for he is his, and always will be. Every touch from his brother has been like electric coursing through him. It is almost to the point of embarrassment how quickly he has spilled for him in the past, his neglected cock needing barely a stroke to pulse out in pleasure from his brother’s taking. It has never been mocked, however, only been treated with a fondness that made Barsad’s heart feel like it could fly out of his chest for he knew such a thing was only reserved for Talia and himself.

Now, though, he is at a loss. It seems wrong to offer that, to try to tempt Bane to take him in a frenzied attempt to forget; it seems like a crass move at its highest form. He wonders what he can possibly do to offer his leader—his brother, his friend—some small measure of comfort. He hesitates, placing a gentle hand on Bane’s shoulder, unsure if such an action might be rebuffed with a broken wrist. His brother has always been unpredictable to the outsider, and despite the fact that Barsad has long learned to read him well, now was such an uncertain time he feels like he must learn him anew.

“Brother?” he speaks not like one would to a spooked animal, but he still keeps his voice low, soft. They have not spoken more than a few short words to one another in the presence of the men before Bane retreated to this solitude. “May I lie with you?”

The shoulder beneath his touch shifts, and Barsad can feel the muscles, tight with tension beneath the skin.

“Better for you to seek comfort elsewhere, Brother.” The words are not a rebuke. They are an honest admission from Bane that he cannot be the one who is strong at the moment. That is not what he wishes, though, and he squeezes his shoulder in response.

“Please, let me be the one to offer my comfort to you, brother.” Bane does not answer him, but he does not send him away, and with that Barsad takes his chance. There is pain when he lowers himself down slowly, but it is bearable, he can bear it for his brother as he carefully lays himself out along Bane’s back, pressing his bandaged stomach to his brother’s skin. He is not pushed off, Bane’s large frame shudders beneath him and he knows he has not guessed wrong.

“I have you, Brother,” he promises quietly, letting his lips brush against the back of his neck, feeling the thick scarring there rub over them. “I will not leave you.” He kisses there and feels his own heart ache again when he feels the slight tremor under his body again at his words. “I will always be with you.” It is an oath and he knows it to be true. This is his brother, and he would die for him, but he will never simply leave him.

His brother does not speak, but there is a change in the air, in his breathing, and suddenly he feels broken open under him, raw, empty, in need. He rubs his hands across his shoulders, his arms, making a soft soothing noise against his brother’s neck, and kissing there softly. Were he to treat Bane in such a manner any other time, he would never live to tell the tale, but he needs this. They both need this, perhaps. Bane is empty, so empty inside, and Barsad knows what it is to be empty, to need another to fill him so that he can feel whole.

He says things, promises, possibly stupid things, things that are too telling about himself, about his own needs. He whispers them out close to his brother’s ear, against his mask, and Barsad knows they help because his brother’s head tilts towards him, the breathing from his mask coming quickly now. He sits back carefully, his thighs stretched so that he can straddle his brother’s back. He cannot whisper now, so he shows his brother with his hands how deeply he cares. He touches every scar on his back, strokes them, and rubs them, before he carefully works deeply into the gravest one along his spine, kneading into it. He knows Talia has done this, has seen her do it, and he at first thinks it is perhaps too far a move, but Bane’s body twists slightly beneath him, his head turns to his side and for the first time in days Barsad can see a gray-blue eye open, a shuddering breath being inhaled. He knows he has made the right choice.

He runs his nails down the scar. They are not Talia’s sharp, beautiful nails; his own are blunt, dirty, burned with chemicals, blood-stained beneath the skin, gun oil ground into his fingertips. Bane moans lightly beneath them still, and though he still grieves, he feels strong in that moment and pushes aside such things. He will be strong for his brother. He digs into his spine, his scar, and Bane is staring at nothing, his eye is unfocussed. He is still half lost and Barsad wishes for him to be here with him, for him to come back to the world of the living with him.

He presses fingers and thumbs into the scar a final time, dragging them down his back, the ghost of a smile on his face when Bane’s spine curves to follow them, like a lion. He climbs from him then, feeling the questioning of the action in his brother’s sudden stilling.

“Will you turn around for me, please, Brother?” he requests. He would happily continue like this, but this could be better, it will be better if Bane turns for him, focuses on him and reality and his surroundings. There is hesitation, such a rare thing on his brother that is causes a pang of sympathy for him. It is pure treason when he leans close and kisses his neck again. “Brother, turn around for me, let me see you.” It is an order and he should be hung for it, but his brother needs him and he will do all that he needs.

Bane turns, slow, lumbering when he is always so smooth even with the bulk of his frame. Barsad gives him the smallest of smiles, meant to encourage, looks at him earnestly and Bane finally relents, lying out on his back. His stomach and chest are bandaged and Barsad peels away the bandages gently, running his fingers over each wound. The knitting flesh is healing well, turning into fresh scars. He makes a noise of sympathy when he touches the deeper ones, and his brother of course does not flinch. He is grieving, not weak; never weak.

“They will leave good scars.” He speaks softly still, a compliment often paid whenever a wound is received honorably. He means it and Bane’s eyes close briefly, grief flashes over his face but he nods, opening them again and he is there with Barsad in that moment.

“Thank you, Brother. Yours, as well.” He refers to the shot in his stomach, but he does not reach to touch it. Barsad is glad; this is for his brother, not himself. He runs his hands along the seam of his brother’s pants, cupping his manhood, the thickness there is warm through the canvas, slightly stirring.

“Let me see to you.” It is still more an order than it ever should be, but Bane nods and lets his head rest back on the pillow, lets his arms remain on the blankets beneath them and does not stop him when he opens his pants, draws them down his body, strips him bare under him. He pats, strokes, and rubs up his thighs, feeling them tighten and loosen beneath his touch. He guides them apart and kneels between them, ignores the pain in his stomach when he bends so that he can kiss the smooth skin of his brother’s inner thigh, one of the rare unmarred places on his body. Bane’s breathing is faster now, his eyes open still, watching him, and he meets his gaze, every kiss onto the sensitive skin there is his quiet promise to never leave him.

He bites lightly into the flesh there, sees Bane’s fingers twitch. Even in this moment an amused look passes between them, the first in so long that it almost hurts. Barsad distracts them from it by licking out, stroking his tongue up the length of his brother, tasting him, hearing his low rumble of pleasure at the suddenness of it. They don’t often waste time with such things. Bane is large and stretches his jaw when he sucks at him, licks over the tip of him. He is also slower to rise for him, but he works still, slurps and kisses wetly until he can taste his fluids leaking out over his tongue and his brother rolls his hips slightly to meet him.

His own cock is straining his pants; his brother’s arousal has never failed to make his own rise out to greet him. He settles back and works his own zipper open, then as an afterthought takes the time to undress entirely, better for them both to be bare in this. He takes the small packet of lubricant from his pocket, the one he had brought on the off chance that his brother would have need of him, and rips the foil open, lets it pour out onto his fingers and looks to Bane for permission. He may have been aiding his brother by seeing to him, but to try to do what he plans to his brother now without a clear yes would be sure folly.

His brother’s voice is low, his eyes lidded and what can be seen of his cheeks are flushed red. He is a beautiful man in Barsad’s eyes, despite or perhaps because of his scars, the metal and leather that hide his face from the world; he has always been beautiful in Barsad’s eyes, though he knows better than to ever speak those words out loud.

“May I?” he seeks permission while he rubs his dry hand along the crux of his brother’s thigh. Bane sighs, his thighs spreading almost imperceptibly wider. It is a yes. Barsad tries to ignore the nervous flutter in his chest at it. He wishes to be good for him, but he has not done such a thing with his brother before and has doubts his brother has performed the act itself, either. He takes a breath for courage and brings his slick hand down, lets its warmed lube drip slippery down between his brother’s thighs and gather near his hole.

He opens him gently, perhaps more gently than needed, but it feels right, to slide a single slick finger into his brother’s tight heat and explore it with careful precision. Bane sighs, he tightens around him, and Barsad cannot imagine how impossibly tight he will feel inside, cannot help but wish this were happening under better circumstances. Two fingers and Bane’s breath catches, it is not a wince, not pain, merely a curious intake of breath at the stretch. Barsad pauses, waits to see if he will be told to stop and when he is not he continues. He twists his fingers carefully, rubs inside of his brother and feels the slightest flicker of pride when Bane’s head tips back suddenly, exposing his throat, and a low groan leaves him, akin to a purr. He presses into the small cluster of nerves, watching breathlessly as his brother raises his hips, pushes back against the touch.

He stretches his fingers further, working in the third until he feels like he is the one who is going to burst without a single touch, seeing Bane twist under him, open for him. His thick cock is hard against his belly, and his eyes, his eyes do not leave Barsad even while his fingers dig into think blankets, tearing them easily in his grip. They are both ready, aching to connect. Bane’s hand reaches to take hold of his arm, he nods, and he scrambles to scoot closer. He can’t help but cry out softly just from the hotness of his brother’s hole when he rests his cock against him, lines them up. He is slow, he must be slow, his stomach hurts too much for anything that could be seen as fast, _they_ both hurt too much for anything that could be seen as fast.

It is a scorching grip that he is pushing into, and he gasps at the pleasure of it, his fingers grab onto Bane’s thighs and he forgets for a moment that he must be the strong one. His head dips forward, overwhelmed by the hot grip on his cock, by his desire to lose himself in flesh and thrust fast and hard when he knows he cannot; that it is not what they need. He forces his eyes open and Bane is still watching him, watching as he pushes himself in, settles inside of him fully. His eyes are almost closed, but they still watch him and the breathless sigh that pushes out of the mask tells Barsad everything he needs to know. He knows what it feels to be full when one has been so empty. It is a bittersweet joy to be able to give his brother something he has gifted him time and time again in the past.

In that moment, they are bare to everything; they are together in their sorrow and in their pleasure. Nothing can touch them, open, raw, filling and being filled. Barsad thumb rubs wetness from his brother’s eye, shushing him softly, surprised when the gesture is returned and Bane’s fingers wipe at his eyes, not having been aware that he, too, is crying. It cannot be helped. He withdraws, feeling his brother’s tightness grip, try to cling to him and trap him inside. He groans out, feeling a shudder run through his body and heat ripple down his spine. Liquid pleasure pools in his core as he thrusts slowly, so slowly that it is a new sort of pain between them both. He wraps his slick hand around his brother’s cock, stroking it to the same pace. His own breath is coming out as pants; he sounds needful, and he is not even the one being entered.

Bane’s reaches, grabbing onto his arm, and Barsad knows he is close to losing himself, that this sort of pleasure is new for him; it is new for Barsad, to be honest, but they are in this confusion together. He leans forward and presses their foreheads together. He must tilt his brother’s head forward to do it, to reach, cradling the back of his neck. The rush of breath from his brother’s mask is a hot puff of chemicals that make him dizzy, but he places a light kiss there anyway, presses his lips to the grate and speaks softly.

“It is ok, Brother. I have you, I will never leave you, I promise. I promise.”

Bane’s pleasure spills out of him with a low cry, and his grip is enough to leave deep bruises in Barsad’s arm, but the possession in it makes him nearly cry again. He thrusts faster, just a little, all that he can allow himself with his wounds. He strokes Bane through his climax, through the slight shudders and soft pants, his come leaking down onto his hand. He lets go then, feels the heat rushing out of him and cannot help but whimper at the intensity of losing himself inside of his brother, filling him, connecting them as never before. Bane’s hand slides from his arm to the back of his head and he cradles it to him, his thumb rubbing his scalp as Barsad’s hips twitch and he moans through his completion.

They are silent, still holding onto one another as their breathing steadies. He doesn’t wish to leave, but he withdraws slowly from his brother, prepared if the moment has been too much and Bane sends him away. Bane is still rubbing his hair, and his fingers feel wonderful against his scalp. He has missed his touch.

“Lie down.”

Barsad nearly chokes back a sob at the words, like a fool, and gingerly lowers himself down onto his brother’s body. They lie together, their wounds touching against one another’s. They are alone, but they are together. They have lost a sister, but they are still brothers. Bane’s hand brushes down his back and he presses his face into his neck, breathes deep the scent of his brother, and strokes his own fingers down his arm. They hold each other and heal together.

**Author's Note:**

> http://relevantlyirreverent.tumblr.com


End file.
